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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185036">The Portrait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo'>nimiumcaelo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Infidelity, M/M, No murder at all, Painter Chilton, Painter Hannibal, Unhappy marriage, Writer/ex-mechanic Will, based on "Ivy" by Taylor Swift</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:26:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185036</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I live and die for moments that we stole / on begged and borrowed time"</p>
<p>
  <i>Life, for Will Lecter, was boring as hell.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He had a job, technically, but it was more of a courtesy than anything else. Hannibal had set it up. Will thought he felt like Will would want that, and he might have, had circumstances been different. This job, though, was very minimal and only involved writing a column or two for a local wildlife magazine. All in all, it took about three hours a week and paid barely enough for Will’s Netflix subscription. At least when he’d been unemployed he could occupy himself with searching for something. This was just hours and hours of nothing stuck in that big house all by himself.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well, until the portrait.<br/></i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Frederick Chilton/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Portrait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life, for Will Lecter, was boring as hell.</p>
<p>He had a job, technically, but it was more of a courtesy than anything else. Hannibal had set it up. Will thought he felt like Will would want that, and he might have, had circumstances been different. This job, though, was very minimal and only involved writing a column or two for a local wildlife magazine. All in all, it took about three hours a week and paid barely enough for Will’s Netflix subscription. At least when he’d been unemployed he could occupy himself with searching for something. This was just hours and hours of nothing stuck in that big house all by himself.</p>
<p>Well, until the portrait.</p>
<p>Hannibal was always a man of grandeur and Will shouldn’t have expected anything less for their two year anniversary. Hannibal, while famous for his landscapes, was never very good at portraits and acknowledged the fact. So, he’d hired a friend of his—more of an acquaintance, really, but Hannibal was liberal with the term—to paint Will so it could be hung in the hallway next to the fading likenesses of Lecters long gone.</p>
<p>Will hadn’t expected much from the whole experience besides an hour of extra conversation per day. Hannibal was frequently out in the nearby wilderness during the day and Will was left to his own devices. Frederick, though, was much pleasanter than Will had hoped for and Will found himself actually laughing with the man. How long had it been since Hannibal had made him laugh?</p>
<p>Like with everyone nowadays, Will started off by making conversation about his husband. That was pretty much what you did when your spouse was so much more liked and known than you were. It turned out that Frederick had tried to do landscapes for years and had even tried apprenticing under Hannibal for a time—but it never worked. He couldn’t find the special something, he told Will, in nature that he found in faces. That something made the whole job worth it.</p>
<p>For hours, then, he studied Will’s features, making first broad strokes then thin, detailing the laughter lines and the shadows on his cheeks in oil paint. Will at first sat very still, unused to modeling, but Frederick soon laughed and said he was allowed to breathe.</p>
<p>“So, what do <em>you</em> do?” Frederick asked, filling in Will’s neck. “Paint?”</p>
<p>“God, no,” Will laughed, though it wasn’t really funny. “I write—well, sometimes.”</p>
<p>“For fun?”</p>
<p>“No, I write a column for a local magazine. Wildlife.”</p>
<p>Frederick’s cheek quirked in a smile. “Hence the landscapes.”</p>
<p>Will scoffed. “As if he’d let me come along. No, he’s Mr. Solitary. I don’t know why he even wanted me to do the column. I mean, I love wildlife, but I’m no writer. I used to be a mechanic.”</p>
<p>Frederick’s eyes flicked up to catch the sheepish look on Will’s features. “Really?”</p>
<p>And then they were talking about Will.</p>
<p>It was strange, to be noticed like that. It was intoxicating. Will saw why Hannibal never missed a dinner party or awards show. Frederick smiled at all of his jokes and asked all the right questions to prompt him further. Will figured it was probably all a sly trick to get him to loosen up and look more comfortable for his portrait, but somehow it felt genuine. Frederick certainly wasn’t faking that captivated look in his eye.</p>
<p>All too quickly, the first session was over. Will spent the rest of the day lingering in the room they’d been painting in, trying to catch the smell of paint, the smell of <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>The other days flew by and Will learned that Frederick clawed his way into the art world from a rich but indifferent family that didn’t give him a lick of support. His father, too, hated him for reasons the two men kept unsaid but could both understand. </p>
<p>When it came time to do the finer details of Will’s face, Frederick asked for their chairs to be brought closer. He stared at Will, without even touching his brush, for a good two minutes. Will felt even embarrassed to swallow. By the time Frederick finally got up and went back to his canvas, Will felt an acute chill. </p>
<p>He was still cold by the time Hannibal came back for a dinner that neither of them had cooked. He asked about Will’s day, then about Frederick, then watched Will over his wine glass as Will floundered to find justification for his day’s activities, as if he was reporting to his mother or a teacher. This gaze left him feeling hot and prickly, but not in any way similar to the heat that had flushed over his limbs when Frederick had clapped his shoulder on the way out the door. The realization hit him like burning his tongue, sudden and lingering throughout the rest of the evening as he tossed ideas around in his head, ideas that took the form of boats and leaving and a pair of warm hands touching his thighs.</p>
<p>It was really no surprise, then, when the day of their last session, Will kissed Frederick before he’d even taken out his paints. Frederick, arms full of supplies, floundered like a poorly made paper airplane before leaning back and away from Will.</p>
<p>He only asked one question.</p>
<p>“Do you love him?”</p>
<p>Will gave a firm no and Frederick was satisfied.</p>
<p>Some things can only be cleaned with fire, Will figured. Some things just run so deep that nothing else will cure and clean them. He supposed that soiling your marriage bed was one of those things. Hannibal would surely have a biblical sort of fit if he ever found out. He might even burn the whole house down, just to rid that tarnished spot forever.</p>
<p>But then, Will supposed, Frederick’s form slotted with his, wasn’t this just burning Hannibal’s touch out of him?</p>
<p>They cleaned up well before Hannibal was set to get back and Frederick left, probably never to return. He’d left the canvas in the entryway for Hannibal to see when he came back. Will wished he would take it with him. He didn’t want Hannibal to look at him anymore.</p>
<p>Will watched him appraise it that evening and started plotting his escape. </p>
<p>There was a boat on the lake. Will was free to use it anytime. The lake reached out and eventually became foreign waters, blending into Canada and endless possibility.</p>
<p>He wondered whether Frederick got seasick.</p>
<p>The next time Will saw Frederick was when Hannibal was in the room. Hannibal had invited colleagues and friends over for a dinner party and an opportunity to brag. Will felt Frederick’s eyes burn on him as Hannibal’s hand drifted low on his hip. The first moment he could, Will broke away and lingered near the bathroom, certain that Frederick would appear eventually—and he did. Hannibal’s wine still on both of their lips, Will locked them both in the bathroom and into each other. In ten minutes, no one could be the wiser and Will had passed on the message.</p>
<p>
  <em>June 3rd. 4am. Meet me at the lake. Hannibal will be asleep. Come away with me.</em>
</p>
<p>There were so many things that should have gone wrong. There were so many ways to fail. Standing on Canadian soil, though, Frederick laughed and said the world had tried to kill him many times before and failed. Perhaps he was just lucky. Will certainly felt so when Frederick looked at him.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>wow i can't stay away from this ship at all can i??<br/>anyway hmu on tumblr @nimiumcaelo</p></blockquote></div></div>
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